


Crow's heart

by cruellae (tinkabelladk)



Category: Cowboy Bebop (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22487011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinkabelladk/pseuds/cruellae
Summary: Gren writes a song for Vicious. Vicious is less than thrilled.
Relationships: Grencia Eckener/Vicious, Julia/Spike Spiegel, Julia/Vicious (Cowboy Bebop)
Kudos: 13





	1. opening set

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Vicious' bird isn't actually a crow, but have you ever tried to write a song about a cormorant?

“You’ll never guess who I met on Callisto,” Julia said, golden eyes glinting in the dim light of the dive bar. Her voice was a low purr, coldly amused. Vicious liked that about her—she was almost as cold as he was. 

She had only one weakness, and that weakness was currently sitting across from them in the small booth, halfway to drunk and watching her with that insipid lovestruck expression, the one he always got when he was drinking. 

It was...annoying. Vicious had thought his partner was stronger, immune to the charms of a woman like Julia, who had the face of an angel and a soul she’d sold to the devil long ago.

She and Vicious understood each other, as he too could be described as “soulless.” They respected each other, and understanding and respect made for a far simpler relationship than love. 

Maybe because there was no love between them, Vicious didn’t much care if Spike had fallen for her. There were fewer and fewer things tying Spike to the Syndicate, and Vicious did not want him to leave. Julia could certainly keep him more effectively than Vicious could. 

“Who did you meet?” Spike asked, his gaze never leaving her face. Vicious resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sentimental fucking sap. 

“His name is Gren,” Julia said. “He plays the saxophone. And he knows Vicious.” 

_The acrid smell of desert dust, the wind sweeping harshly across the barren wasteland. A young man smiles at Vicious, his heart an open wound. Easy to stick a dagger in and twist, and Vicious wants to, because he hates that smile. Hates that it makes him want, makes something in him stir that he thought was long dead. A part of himself that he thought he’d killed._

Vicious took a moment to respond, pretending the memory didn’t rise immediately to the surface. “Hmm. I knew him on Titan. Another soldier.” 

“And your friend, wasn’t he?” There was a knowing glint in Julia’s eye, a hint of smugness in the turn of her mouth. Spike probably didn’t see it, but Vicious couldn’t miss it if he tried. And he knew then that Gren had told her the whole story, or at least most of it. 

“Of a sort,” Vicious said, tilting his head so his silver hair fell in his face. 

A moment passed, the mellow notes of an obscure love song emanating from the piano at the back of the bar. Vicious thought of Gren, how he used to sing for the other soldiers when they were in the trenches for days with nothing to entertain them, his husky tenor filling the air with a kind of tenuous beauty. 

“Do you want to know where he is now?” Julia asked. 

“Not particularly.” 

Julia laughed like she knew that was the truth. Like she knew it was more than indifference that made him reluctant. 

“He’s on Callisto. Playing saxophone in a shitty little bar in the evenings and working whatever day jobs he can pick up. Guys like him don’t have much in the way of options.” 

Vicious had expected as much. But still, he didn’t like hearing it. Imagining Gren doing manual labor in the dirty snow, the frigid air biting at his cheeks. Gren was strong—he could survive it. But he deserved better. 

“How did you meet him?” Vicious asked, glancing through the fall of his hair at Julia. 

“He just started working for the Syndicate,” Julia said. “We needed someone to run red-eye through customs on Callisto.” Her lovely eyes sparkled as they turned on Vicious. “He was desperate for something. Like I said, not a lot of options.” 

“I see,” Vicious said. He wondered what he was going to have to give her later, in exchange for this information. 

With Julia, everything was a trade, and he liked that about her because it meant he always knew where he stood. When it came to Spike, it was more complicated because there was friendship and honor and caring bound up in their connection, and he understood none of those things, but wanted to give them to Spike anyway. He owed Spike that much. 

In the background, the jazz singer had moved on to a more familiar tune. 

> _ I saw you once upon a time, _
> 
> _ Black wing, against the sky.  _
> 
> _ Crow’s heart, crow’s heart, beating alone _
> 
> _ Just the gaze of your cruel eye. _

“Guess they’re singing about you again,” Spike said, lifting his head at the sound of the familiar chorus to smirk at Vicious.

It was a song made popular by a newly famous group from Callisto, and it was true that the lyrics did evoke Vicious to some extent. It wasn’t about him, of course, but Spike still found it highly amusing and would sing little bits of it to Vicious when they had an odd moment of quiet on jobs. 

Vicious gave no outward response, but every time he heard it, it felt a little like being stabbed, and with the painful sensation always came thoughts of Gren.

“You’re more right than you know, Spike Spiegel.” Julia reached across the table with her slender, elegant fingers to take the cigarette from Spike’s hand and bring it to her own lips. Her eyes cut to Vicious, watching for a reaction. Testing the waters. 

Vicious said nothing, but held her gaze. Let her think Spike was a privilege she had to earn. It was always better, with people like her, to have something to bargain with. Something they wanted, something they couldn’t live without. 

In this way, Vicious had made himself invincible, because there was nothing he wanted. 

And that was why he should have let the scorpion take Gren after the first time he saw that shy, hopeful smile. Wanting was a slow poison, a creeping weakness, but a death nevertheless. And above all else, Vicious was a survivor. 


	2. wander mind; wander mine

“Do you think of Gren when you fuck me?” Julia asked, lying beside Vicious on her tangled satin sheets. 

Vicious propped himself up on his elbow, turning to study her. Sunlight played on the exquisite shape of her body, sliding down the smooth planes of her thighs, pooling atop the curve of her breasts.

“Do you think about Spike?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Parrying the question back at her. 

“Sometimes,” she said, without a hint of shame. “The two of you are so alike it hardly matters anyway.” 

Vicious wondered if that should bother him. Perhaps not. Julia was a free agent, and anyone who thought to possess her was an utter fool. 

“But I’m nothing like Gren,” Julia said. “So it’s an entirely different question.”

“How did he get out of prison?” Vicious asked. He knew the length of Gren’s sentence and had memorized, without meaning to, the day that it would end. Not because he had any particular plans, but just because he liked knowing that Gren would someday be free. As he deserved to be. 

Julia smiled, as always, like an angel. Raised by nuns, she had once told Vicious she was taught not to smile, but to keep her thoughts constantly in solemn meditation. Now, her smile crept across her face only when she wasn’t paying attention, or was using it deliberately.

“It’s nice to see you care about someone, Vicious,” she said. 

“I don’t. I’m just curious.” 

She laughed softly, lifting her hand and examining her nails in the warm sunlight. In the background, a hymn played softly on her speaker. She was the only person Vicious knew who liked to fuck to church music. 

“I have something you want,” she said. 

Vicious laid back down on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t want anything.” 

“No. I think you’re right.” She was quiet for a moment, and he heard the click of her lighter, the acrid scent of cigarette smoke filling the air. “You don’t want this. But I’m going to give it to you anyway. Because I’m a giving person.” 

Vicious snorted in amusement. “You are, are you?”

She was quiet for a moment, and then she started to sing, in a slow and lilting voice. 

> _ If I could change your song _
> 
> _ I’d rewrite your vicious little tune  _
> 
> _ Crow’s heart, crow’s heart, beating alone _
> 
> _ Black wing against the moon. _

“Spike already sings that enough,” Vicious said. He never enjoyed that song, but especially didn’t like hearing it in her voice. 

“Do you know who else sings it?” Julia watched him, her eyes shrewd and calculating, measuring each reaction. “Gren. In fact, he wrote it.”

“Bullshit,” Vicious muttered, but there it was again, that sensation of ice, driving into his gut. 

“I would tell you to ask him about it,” she said, “but he’s going to be dead very soon. What a shame.” 

Vicious sat up, shaking his unruly hair out of his face. “What do you want.” 

“The fun part is seeing if you can guess,” she said, her eyes half lidded as she laid back, luxuriating in the sunlight like a sleek, gorgeous cat. “Have a good trip, Vicious.” 

Although he had no intention of going to Callisto like a madman on a mission, Vicious was already on his feet, pulling on his clothes. He left without saying goodbye. 


	3. your reflection in my sword

Smoke hung heavy in the air at Restor House, the neon lights illuminating the room in shallow splashes of pink and orange. Between the puddles of light, men sat in the dark, chain smoking and drinking cheap potato vodka. 

It wasn’t warm in here, but it was less cold than outside, where a fierce wind moaned and howled its way down the slush covered alleys, rattling against the windows like a beast trying to get inside. 

> _But you’ll always be at war_
> 
> _Even when the fighting’s done._
> 
> _Crow’s heart, crow’s heart, beating alone_
> 
> _Black wing against the sun._

Gren let his mind wander as he sang. He knew the verses to _Crow’s Heart_ better than he knew his own name. He had written them, after all. The jazz band who made the song famous never credited him, but they had spent a few weeks in this crummy little town, jamming and drinking and talking music until Gren almost felt like he wasn’t completely alone in the world. 

Then they had moved on, and left him behind. He hadn’t known they were still playing the song until he heard it on the radio. 

He never could have made the song famous himself—as an escaped felon he had to stay out of the spotlight. But it left a bitter taste in his mouth to hear his music was being played all over the solar system while he was stuck here in this cold town in the middle of nowhere. 

He went home at two in the morning, the fifty woolongs in tips from a night of playing tucked into his wallet. It wasn’t enough to buy breakfast, but he couldn’t begrudge the other residents of this shitty town for being stingy. None of them had much more than he did. 

When he got home, the door was unlocked and there was a bar of light beneath it. He opened it carefully, but not _that_ carefully. The dragons tended to skulk around and had no real respect for privacy or social norms. He had done two jobs for them now, smuggling red eye from part of Callisto to another by tram, and while the first job had been a “trial run,” the second had paid his rent for the coming month. He assumed someone was here to brief him on the next task. 

There was no one in the apartment, waiting for him. But the door to his tiny balcony was ajar, and he caught a glimpse of a long black coat, an imposing silhouette. 

“Hello?” he said, approaching carefully. 

In an instant the figure whirled around, his coat flaring as he moved. A flash of light on steel, flying past Gren more quickly than he could track. He spun around, nearly falling, in time to see a short, stocky man in a black mask and hat impaled on the slender blade of a katana. A pistol fell from the man’s fingers as he stared past Gren in utter shock. 

Gren turned slowly, wondering if he was caught in some sort of bizarre dream, because Vicious was standing just behind him, holding the sword that was still lodged in the thug’s chest, looking mildly aggravated but otherwise indifferent. 

“What are you doing here?” Gren asked. 

There was a sickening wet sound, as Vicious pulled his katana free, letting the dead man slump gracelessly to the ground. 

“The last shipment of red eye you dropped off had a tracker.” He took a cloth out of his coat pocket and began wiping the blood from his blade. 

Gren took a step back, horrified. “I didn’t have anything to do with that. You know I’m not that stupid.” 

“The Dragon knows you didn’t plant it,” Vicious said. “The culprit has been caught. However, your negligence in allowing it to transfer so far down the line is a problem. You were supposed to check, Gren.”

“I’ll be more careful,” Gren said, his heart beating wildly against his ribs. A thousand times, he’d imagined seeing Vicious again. Not surprisingly, as many of those were nightmares as daydreams. 

“I don’t care,” Vicious said, sliding his sword into its sheath. “It doesn’t make a difference to me what you did or what you promise you will do in the future.” 

“So you’re just going to kill me? I thought we were comrades.” 

Vicious’s mouth flickered into a slight smile for a half-second at the last sentence. He looked like nothing so much as a monster, the kind that shows up in stories meant to frighten little kids, the kind it’s easy to pretend doesn’t exist, until he’s right there at the door with bloody claws.

Gren turned away, a shiver running through him. The room was very cold, and the balcony door was still open. But Gren didn’t want to be in a confined space with Vicious, so he left it. 

“You sing about me.”

Gren crossed his arms over his chest, his breath coming in a soft puff of mist. He wondered if he was going to die. He found that even though he had no hope for the future and his past was filled with bitter memories, he still desperately wanted to live. He had waited for so long to see Vicious again, to get an answer to the question that had nearly swallowed Gren whole. 

_Did you betray me?_

He still kept the music box Vicious had given him on Titan, and a photograph of them together. But he knew how cold Vicious could be, how ruthless. They’d told him Vicious testified against him, and it could have been the truth. 

He had to know for sure. 

“Crow’s heart,” Vicious said. “Is that a metaphor?” 

“Fuck off, Vicious,” Gren’s voice broke slightly. “You don’t deserve a single thing from me, not anymore.” 

“You are a fool.” Vicious’ voice was harsh as cracking ice. But something warm and heavy settled over Gren’s shoulders—Vicious’ thick black jacket. 

Gren sighed, pulling the coat more tightly around himself. He turned to Vicious and waited. Silence, not questions, would draw out answers. He’d learned this about Vicious on Titan, and back then, even thought it endearing. 

“I’m not going to let anyone else kill you,” Vicious said, somehow managing to sound like both a heartless assassin and a possessive lover. “If that. Happens.” He paused. “If it happens, it will be me.” 

“Am I supposed to be grateful or something?” Gren said, raising an eyebrow. “Just do it already, Vicious. I’m tired of waiting for you.” 

Vicious paused, looking around with narrowed eyes. And then he put his arm around Gren’s shoulders, almost like a lover might, leaning in to murmur in his ear. “Come with me if you want to live.” 


	4. not warm but at least less cold

It was warmer in the hotel room Vicious led him to, warm enough that Gren could take off his jacket and thick knitted sweater, and pull the gloves from his hands. Vicious’ eyes lingered on the cuts and calluses on his fingers, rewards for the hard manual labor he’d become accustomed to doing. 

“You are not going to like my plan,” Vicious said. He’d been relatively quiet on the walk over here, and Gren had stopped himself from humming the refrain to  _ Crow’s Heart _ , though it had been on his mind the entire time. 

“Did you betray me?” Gren asked, the words falling out of his mouth before he could stop them. “When I...was put in prison...they said you testified against me. Is it true?”

Vicious studied his face for a long moment, and Gren thought he wasn’t going to say anything at all, but then he spoke. 

“Does it matter?” 

“Vicious.” Gren stepped closer, his heart aching with the weight of the truth he’d already known but had tried to ignore. “I need to know.” 

Vicious turned away, tossing his coat on a nearby chair. “Do you want to hear my plan, or are you leaving?” His hand lingered on the hilt of the katana he was still wearing, but somehow Gren was not afraid. 

“Tell me the plan,” Gren said. “And then I’ll decide.” 

Vicious removed his sword belt and set the katana in its glimmering sheath atop the dresser. Gren wasn’t so stupid as to think that meant he was unarmed, but it was a nice gesture nevertheless. 

“You have committed a crime against the syndicate. As your crime is negligence, lacking malicious intent, you must be removed from any work where you might commit the same crime again.” 

“Wait.” Gren stepped forward. “No one quits working for the syndicate. Everybody knows that.” 

“Yes.” Vicious knelt and opened the mini fridge, pulling out a small plastic bottle of cheap whiskey. He opened it and handed it to Gren. “Drink. You’re going to want something to take the edge off.” 

Gren tipped the bottle back, the alcohol burning his tongue and throat. “Okay. Shoot.” 

“Very well.” Vicious sat at the table and Gren took the chair across from him. “The problem is thus: you cannot continue your job, but if you are dismissed, you will be killed.”

“Yeah.” There it was again, Gren’s heart racing in his chest, even though he was pretty sure by this point that Vicious wasn’t going to kill him. “Your people are a bunch of assholes, Vicious.” 

Vicious gave him a smile that, though brief, bordered on warm. “Yes. Well. I believe I have a loophole. You see, the syndicate is very old, and we have a long codex of rules and laws passed down through generations. Most of them are not enforced, but technically all of them can be called upon at any moment.” 

“Sounds complicated.” 

“It is.” Vicious paused, running his fingers over the curve of his katana’s sheath. It wasn’t a threat, just a mindless gesture, something akin to fidgeting. “This is the part you won’t like.” 

Gren pushed his hair out of his face and met Vicious’ gaze. “Try me.” 

“A man of my rank is allowed to take lovers,” Vicious said. “Concubines is the exact wording, but I understand if you take offense to that. As I said, these laws are very old.” 

Gren grabbed the bottle of whiskey and took another large swallow. He had a feeling he was going to need it. 

“A lover who belongs to someone of my rank is not expected to work, you understand?” Vicious watched Gren carefully. “And small transgressions can be forgiven.” 

Gren blinked at him, more bewildered than anything else. Vicious’ expression was studiously cold and indifferent. Gren opened his mouth, then closed it, overwhelmed by so many questions he couldn’t figure out which one to voice. 

“You are under no obligation to do anything other than what is necessary to make it appear you and I are romantically involved,” Vicious said. “You don’t have to fuck me. You don’t even have to like me. But you will have to come to Mars.” 

There were so many things Gren should have asked in that moment. Like “Is this my only choice?” or at least a request for clarifications about the rules and logistics. 

But all he could think to say was, “Why are you helping me?” 

Vicious got up from the chair, reached for his coat, and pulled it on. “I’ll be back at 0600 tomorrow to take you to Mars. Don’t leave this room before then.” 

“Where are you going?” Gren got to his feet. “You can’t just spring this on me and walk out.” 

“If you leave here, I’m going to assume it’s because you don’t want to be saved,” Vicious said, grabbing his katana and slipping out the door. 


	5. the distance between stars

Vicious sat perched on a hard backed chair, a cup of coffee on the table next to him and his katana lying beside it. Gren was sleeping on the bed nearby, turned on his side, away from Vicious. His dark hair was spread across the sheets, nearly black in the dim light, though Vicious knew from experience that the bright Titan sunlight could turn that mane to purple fire. 

They’d booked a room on the first transport out of Callisto, one room for the two of them because, of course, they needed to adopt their ruse now, not later. Whoever had trailed Vicious to Gren’s apartment had seen him kill that assassin, and was probably on this ship as well. Vicious needed to be sure the story that person would tell when they made it back to Mars was the right one. 

Unfortunately that meant very close quarters with someone who was both breathtakingly beautiful and very, very angry at Vicious. 

Vicious had slept with Julia often, of course, and before her there had been others, men and women both. They had all offered themselves to him, because he was powerful or dangerous or because he knew influential people. If they hadn’t, he wouldn’t have bothered to seek them out. Having someone in his bed was enjoyable, but the person there was of little consequence. 

On Titan, he had never allowed himself to think of Gren as anything but what he was, a tool to be used, a means to an end. And while he did feel flickers of desire when those blue eyes caught his, he was disciplined enough to snuff them out before they could catch fire. 

But something in Vicious had changed, or perhaps it was their circumstances. Or the unexpected strength and poise Gren now had. The incredible resilience of his spirit and the sweetness that remained at his core. The shy soldier Vicious had known on Titan could never hold his gaze. The man he’d become was so quietly self-possessed and confident that now Vicious was the one who faltered. 

Whatever it was, Vicious was acutely aware that he had never wanted anything as badly as he wanted to climb into bed right now and push that dark mane of hair aside so he could kiss the side of Gren’s neck. 

He wondered if Julia knew how weak he would be, if she had predicted that Gren would bring Vicious to his knees. 

Gren sighed, rolling over onto his back. “Are you watching me sleep?” he asked, peeking at Vicious with one eye. 

“Don’t be so vain.” Vicious tapped his fingernails against the table. “I’m making plans.” 

“Mmm. I hope your plans involve breakfast.” Gren rubbed his eyes and sat up. “What time is it?” 

“A little past four. Go back to bed.” 

Gren laughed. “You’re cranky in the morning. Probably because you slept in a chair. Or didn’t sleep at all.”

Vicious did not answer that, turning instead to watch the stars drift by their window. 

“Stop being ridiculous and come to bed,” Gren said. “We slept closer than this in the trenches.”

Vicious sighed, but Gren did have a point. There was no reason to fear such proximity, except the utterly absurd wanting that he couldn’t seem to shake. 

It wasn’t even about sex, not entirely. He just wanted to touch, wanted to put his arms around Gren and bury his nose in that impossibly soft looking hair. He remembered a similar yearning on Titan, in the long cold desert nights. 

He settled beside Gren, reluctantly slipping under the pile of blankets meant to counteract the chill of space. Lying on his back, he did his best to think of anything and everything except the warm body beside his. 

“You’re so tense I can feel it from all the way over here,” Gren said, propping himself up on his arm to smile at Vicious. “If one of us is going to be upset about this arrangement, I think it should be me.” 

“Are you?” Vicious couldn’t look away, as much as he wanted to. 

“Terrible things happened to me after the war, Vicious,” Gren said. “Some of them were your fault and some of them weren’t. But even so, I think your side of it was worse. Because I have at least been happy sometimes. Can you say the same?” 

“This is stupid. Go to sleep, Gren.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Gren said, lying back down. 

Vicious watched the pinpricks of light and thought that he had much more in common with the cold emptiness between them. Had he ever been happy? Even for a single day? Julia brought him satisfaction and power, but he’d be lying if he said it was joy. 

“I was twelve.” Vicious cleared his throat. “My guardian took me to SpaceLand with my foster brother. Spike and I spent the entire day there. We didn’t do any training or even steal anything. We just rode the rides and ate cotton candy until we were sick. That’s...a time when I was happy.” 

“Hmm.” Gren rolled over to face Vicious. “That’s a lovely memory. Where is Spike now?” 

“He’s still on Mars. You’ll meet him when we get there.” Vicious felt an odd eagerness at the thought, and wondered what Spike would think of Gren. “But it’s not the same. Neither of us are the same.” 

“But he’s still alive and so are you,” Gren said, pillowing his hands behind his head. “That means it’s not too late.” 


	6. stick ‘em up

Gren breathed a sigh of relief when he made it to Vicious’ apartment, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. The Martian city was busy and dense with people, smog hanging in the humid air of the crater. Vicious had left him at the spaceport with a keycard and terse directions, telling Gren only that he had to meet with the Council, whatever that was, and would find him later. 

“Hey, Vicious.” A man with dark, fluffy hair got up off the couch, moving with a languid grace not unlike a lazy housecat. “I’ve been waiting all day.” 

He paused as soon as he saw Gren, and that coiled laziness vanished as he drew a pistol from his side with dizzying speed and raised it to aim squarely at Gren’s forehead. 

“Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?” 

Gren slowly put his hands in the air. “My name is Gren. Vicious gave me his key and told me to wait for him here.” 

“Vicious gave you his key.” The man’s eyes narrowed, studying Gren’s face for any hint of duplicity. “Really.” 

Gren nodded. 

“I don’t buy it. Vicious would never give anyone the key to his home.” The man frowned, scratching at his fluffy mop of hair. 

“He gave it to you,” Gren said. 

The man laughed. He was very expressive, Gren noticed, fidgeting and shuffling his feet and scratching the back of his neck. But somehow the barrel of the gun never wavered, and one eye always stayed focused on Gren. 

“I hack the lock,” he said. “He lets me because we’re best friends. Brothers, even.” 

“Then you must be Spike,” Gren said. “He told me a little about you.” 

“Sure.” Spike pulled off his necktie without disrupting his steady aim. “Hold out your hands.” 

Gren sighed. He felt nothing but weary. The journey here had not been restful, with Vicious’ aggressive silence and constant pacing. And now this, whatever this was. 

Seated in one of Vicious’ austere dining chairs, his hands securely bound to the back, Gren watched as Spike flopped back down on the couch. He seemed more relaxed, but his gun was still close to hand. The TV was on, playing some music video, but he was still keeping an eye on Gren.

“Vicious is on his way,” Spike said. “He’s probably going to murder you when he gets here for stealing his apartment key.” 

“I doubt it,” Gren muttered, more annoyed than anything else. He had spent a good chunk of the journey composing a song in his head. Now, he itched for paper to get it down. He was planning to call it _Snakebitten_ , and include a mournful saxophone solo between vocals. 

The familiar opening strains of _Crow’s Heart_ came from the TV, the lead singer silhouetted against the moon as the music video started. Spike huffed a soft laugh, turning up the volume. 

> _In the cold eye of the crow_
> 
> _Love is just a pantomime_
> 
> _Crow’s heart, crow’s heart, beating alone_
> 
> _Black wings on my mind_

“Vicious hates this song, you know,” he said. “Which is hilarious, because it’s basically about him.” 

Gren hadn’t written the song to impress Vicious, and in fact had poured a lot of his anger and hurt into the creation of it. Even so, he didn’t really like hearing that Vicious hated it. 

“I don’t hate the song.” Vicious’ gravelly voice came from behind Gren, but he couldn’t turn around to look, restrained as he was. “I hate your singing voice.” 

“Hey, Vicious.” Spike smiled easily, like an open door. “You know this guy?”

“I do.” Warm fingers brushed Gren’s wrists, and a moment later the bonds were loosened enough for him to get free. He got to his feet, stretching his arms. 

“Huh. Guess he’s not an intruder after all.” Spike shrugged, not looking particularly guilty. “Sorry about that.” 

“Gren, meet Spike,” Vicious said. “And this is Lin.” 

The tall, quiet young man standing beside Vicious bowed deeply at the introduction, but said nothing. 

“Everything is well,” Vicious said. He reached up and brushed a lock of purple hair out of Gren’s face, tucking it behind his ear. “But you must be tired. Let me show you the bedroom.” 

Even though it was only an act, put on for the two syndicate hitmen with them, Gren’s heart stuttered at the gesture, and he followed Vicious down the hallway without a word, feeling a little like he had on Titan, like this was a man he would follow anywhere. 

“Get some rest,” Vicious said, opening the door to what was presumably his bedroom. It was as austere and unwelcoming as Vicious himself, all sleek black and glass furniture, gunmetal gray bed sheets. 

Vicious left him there, returning to the others. Gren curled up atop the blankets and closed his eyes. He thought the bed might smell like Vicious, steel and spice, but it didn’t smell like anything at all. Freshly laundered, he thought, relaxing against the mattress. Sleep overtook him almost immediately. 


	7. sold my soul but i want it back

Vicious stood at the large window that filled one wall of his apartment. Through the window, the city he called home glowed in the darkness, a collection of yellow lights scattered across the crater. 

“What a clever little loophole.” Julia smiled at him, all golden softness in the circle of light cast by a tall lamp, her hair falling down her back in gentle waves. “I’m truly impressed.”

“Good to know I can still surprise you,” Vicious said, glancing at her. “I can only imagine how disappointed you were when I came back from Callisto alive.” 

“Do you know what I want, Vicious?” Julia took Vicious’ tie in her long fingers, adjusting the knot at his neck. 

“No,” Vicious said honestly. “And I don’t much care.” 

“I want freedom,” she said. “More than anything else in the world.” 

“Then go. Be free. I wouldn’t have stopped you.” 

She sighed, letting him go and turning her face away. “You don’t understand.”

“Probably not.” 

She tossed her hair and turned away, walking towards the door. In a move too fast to follow, Vicious grabbed her wrist and jerked her back towards him. He leaned down to murmur into her ear. “If I find out you planted that tracker, your life is forfeit.” 

She laughed, low and lovely as a jazz song. “What a weakness you have, Vicious. I never would have guessed.” 

Vicious let her go, shoving her away. “Get out of here.” 

“What do you expect,” she said, slinging her coat over her shoulder, “from a man with a crow’s heart?”

Vicious waited for her to leave, then turned back to the window to watch the city shine in the dark. 

He couldn’t help but be aware of the visitor in his apartment. Before the trip back to Mars, Vicious had not slept in another person’s presence since his time on Titan. Julia never stayed the night, and he never asked her to—it was one of the many understandings between them.

The door to the bedroom creaked, and Vicious’ hand automatically flew to the hilt of his katana before his mind caught up with his reflexes. 

“It’s just me.” Gren gave him a sleepy smile. His hair was loose, dark as night in the shadow and a brilliant purple where the light hit it. It looked like silk, and Vicious had the irrational desire to touch it. 

“You should be sleeping,” Vicious said. 

“So should you.” Gren was wearing a white satin robe that belonged to Julia, the fabric shimmering as he moved. 

The effect was enchanting, and Vicious found it difficult to look away as Gren moved into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Even on Titan, he had been nothing like the other soldiers. Where they were brawlers, forceful and coarse, Gren had always fought like a dancer, each motion tuned to some music only he could hear. 

“The Elders have granted my request,” Vicious said. “For now, you’re safe.” 

Gren leaned back against the counter, raising an eyebrow. “What now?” 

“Now we pretend. I am often watched, so we must keep up appearances.”

“What does that mean?” 

“You will stay here for now,” Vicious said. “You will not work, but I will buy the things you need. You will occasionally accompany me to events. Apart from those obligations, you may do as you wish.” 

“I need you to answer my question. Before this goes any further.” Gren set his glass of water on the counter and stood straight. “Why are you helping me?”

It was a maddening question, because Vicious himself didn’t know the answer. 

“Wouldn’t you want to know, if you were in my place?” 

Vicious turned his face away. “Grencia. Stop asking.” 

Surprisingly, Gren was quiet for a moment after that. He set down his glass of water and went to the black upright piano in the corner of the room, brushing the dust off of the keyboard cover before pushing it back to reveal the tidy row of ivory keys. 

“Do you play the piano?” he asked. “You never said anything on Titan.”

“As a boy I had to take lessons,” Vicious said. “Mao thought it would civilize me. I hated it.”

Gren’s nimble fingers ran up and down the keys, playing a quick, agile scale. “Why did you buy a piano, then?”

“Mao bought it. As a reminder.” 

“A reminder of what?” 

“Temperance. Discipline. Restraint. All those things music lessons were supposed to teach me.” 

Gren laughed, and beneath his long fingers the piano laughed with him, a jazzy collection of scattered notes. And then his smile faded and the music became gentle and calm and he turned to Vicious with a melancholy shine in his sapphire eyes. 

“Well? Do you want me to play your song?” 

“Yes,” Vicious said. 

The tune was slow, lilting, haunting, and written to suit Gren’s husky tenor in such a way that once Vicious had heard him sing it, no other rendition would ever seem complete. Vicious stood motionless by the window, caught up in the music like a bird in a storm. 

> _ All that’s left is a single feather _
> 
> _ Drifting slowly to the ground _
> 
> _ And I don’t know whether  _
> 
> _ I’m lost or I am found  _
> 
> _ If I could tell you something _
> 
> _ Cross the distance and the years _
> 
> _ I’d tell you of this yearning _
> 
> _ I’d tell you of my tears _
> 
> _ In a flash of tempered steel  _
> 
> _ Men meet their demise  _
> 
> _ Crow’s heart, crow’s heart, beating alone _
> 
> _ Black wings on the rise  _

And then it ended, and Vicious could feel nothing but anger, that someone had dared touch him in such a way, and fear, that this tenuous connection would soon be broken as such attachments always were. 

Better to be safe than sorrowful, always. He picked up his katana and slipped out the front door before Gren could turn around and ask him to speak. 


	8. brother, can you spare some time?

Vicious walked two miles along the dark streets of the night city before he realized where he was going, where he had been headed all along. Standing before Spike’s door, he hesitated for a long moment before knocking. Two raps on the door, then a pause, then three more. It had been their code ever since they were boys, growing up together in Mao Yenrai’s house. 

Spike opened the door with a smile, a cigarette in his mouth. Of course he wouldn’t be sleeping—he rarely went to bed before three or four in the morning. 

“Hey, Vicious,” he said. “C’mon in.” 

They settled on Spike’s couch, worn leather dotted with the occasional cigarette burn. The room smelled comfortably of cigarette smoke, weed, and whiskey, a blend Vicious had come to associate with Spike. A pistol lay disassembled on the table, gun oil and brushes beside it. 

“Julia filled me in on what you’re up to.” Spike bumped his shoulder playfully against Vicious, then leaned lazily back against his side of the couch. “Never knew you swung that way, man.”

Vicious shrugged. He’d never thought it an important detail. 

“Gotta say I’m offended.” Spike grinned, tapping his chest. “All this on offer and you never looked twice at me.” 

Vicious snorted, hiding a smile. “You’re an idiot.”  _ And my brother, in spirit if not in blood.  _

“Yeah, well. Hey Vish, I hope he makes you happy.” 

It was a surprisingly earnest sentiment, coming from Spike, and it caught Vicious off guard. 

“It’s just a cover,” Vicious said. “To keep him safe. I would have told you, but Lin...”

“You can trust Lin,” Spike insisted. 

“I don’t trust anyone.” It was how Vicious stayed alive. Unlike Spike, who survived on sheer luck and skill, and the few threats that managed to overcome those obstacles ended up impaled on Vicious’ katana. 

“Don’t you trust me?” Spike asked. Again, that oddly earnest look in his eyes, the absence of his usual irreverence. 

“With my life, Spike,” Vicious said, without hesitation. “You know that.” 

Spike scratched the back of his head with the same guilty look he had when he told Mao about that girl he let go when they were teenagers.

She was the only daughter of some big shot, and Spike was supposed to kill her, but the lovestruck idiot couldn’t bring himself to do it. So Vicious did the hit in his place. Mao knew, of course, but he let it go. He’d always had a soft spot for Spike. 

It wasn’t the last time Vicious finished a job Spike hadn’t the heart for, but he didn’t mind. It was easy for him to do, and one of the few ways he could protect Spike. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t trust me,” Spike said, looking away with a hangdog expression that made something ache in Vicious’ chest. 

“Why?” Vicious asked impatiently. “Because you’re in love with Julia?” 

Spike sighed, leaning his head back. “Is it that obvious? Look, I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I would never do anything, you know that.” 

“If you did.” Vicious held his gaze. “If you did, it would be okay.” 

Spike blinked at him, startled. “You don’t…” 

“I don’t love anyone, Spike.” 

_ Except maybe you.  _ At thirteen years old, pricking their fingers with the tip of Vicious’ katana and pressing them together, Vicious had made the only vow he’d ever intended to keep. But he never knew if Spike felt the same. 

They were so good together, fighting back to back. Vicious never had to look to know which way Spike’s bullets would fly, and Spike always knew exactly where to cover him so he could get close enough to use his katana. Spike was the steady thrumming of a bass guitar, setting an even beat to complement Vicious who—erratic but never undisciplined—went forth in bursts of fury that rose and fell like the notes of a saxophone. 

Together they were a song and a storm, invincible and unstoppable. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Spike waved his hand like a cat lazily batting a string. “Vicious the Vicious. We all know.” 

But the light in his eyes told Vicious that he heard what wasn’t said as clearly as what was. 


	9. suffering’s just a catalyst baby

The sound of the bedroom door opening was enough to wake Gren from a deep, dream filled slumber, and he was on his feet with the gun Vicious gave him in his hand in a matter of seconds. His hyperaware reflexes were honed on Titan and had never really dulled. Neither had his excellent aim. 

He had the gun pointed at the intruder for a half-second before he realized it was just Vicious, dressed in a rumpled black suit, his tie blood red against his white shirt. He looked weary, a line of tension in his shoulders and evident in his movements as he set his katana on the dresser. 

Gren blinked at him. He hadn’t thought Vicious would be back tonight, not after he’d run out the door after hearing Gren sing. Gren wasn’t sure what to make of that reaction, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt. 

“You startled me.” 

“Get used to it,” Vicious said, turning to face him. He paused, his eyes lingering on Gren’s chest. 

Gren realized he was wearing only a loose t-shirt. The white shirt did nothing to hide his curves, the dark of his nipples visible through the thin fabric. 

He wasn’t angry about the changes to his body, necessarily. He didn’t find them disfiguring or ugly. After all, he’d never really fit neatly into any gender role. 

But what he did hate, what he was angry about, was the way the doctors had looked at him in the laboratory exam rooms, with mixed revulsion and pity. That was Vicious’ fault, as was the fact that Gren had to hide the body and the self he was not ashamed of, because others would be ashamed on his behalf. 

“In prison,” he began. “I tried to kill myself. So they put me in an experimental trial of some new drug. It threw my hormones out of whack, and well, this is what happened.” 

If Vicious felt any trace of remorse for the result of his betrayal, he gave no sign. Ever practical, he said, “Are there any lingering effects you need medical attention for? I can have it arranged.” 

Gren shook his head. “I’ve been off the medication for years. My hormones were back to normal before I left prison. And if you’re asking me to get surgery—” 

“I’m not. Unless you want to.” 

“I don’t.” Gren crossed his arms, feeling agitated. There was a strange tension in the air, sharp enough to cut him. 

“You’re angry,” Vicious said. 

“I don’t care that my body looks like this, but I hate that it happened against my will. Because of you. When I look in the mirror, I remember how you hurt me. I remember how much I cared about you, and what you gave me in return.” 

Vicious’ eyes flicked over him, taking in his entire body all at once. As always, Vicious’ expression was disciplined into stillness, unreadable. 

Back on Titan, Gren had noticed Vicious looking at him more than once, with a spark that might have been desire. He’d even allowed himself to fantasize—naive boy that he had been—about the possibility of a romance, after the war was over. Back then he would have followed Vicious anywhere. 

Now Vicious was even more controlled than the man Gren had known on Titan. If he felt anything at all, he hid it well. 

“Grencia,” he said, and paused. Again, that strange and stiff formality, like he was deliberately putting distance between them. Even so, his voice was low and sincere. “Only you could experience so much cruelty and come out of it softer and more beautiful than before.” 

Gren blinked at him, startled by the oddly tender sentiment. It was nothing at all like any version of Vicious he’d ever known. 

“Go to sleep,” Vicious said, gesturing to the bed. “In the morning, we can figure out our strategy for keeping you safe.” 

“Where will you sleep?” Gren asked. 

Vicious turned away from him, loosening his tie and pulling it off. “Couch.” He paused, and when he spoke, his voice was a low warning. “Don’t press it tonight, Gren.” 

Gren nodded. He understood the need for space. But when Vicious left the room, he curled up in Vicious’ big bed, feeling more alone than he had in a long time. The thought of starting over yet again was exhausting, but what choice did he have? 


End file.
